


Software Instability

by chewblebee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android violence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship/Love, Hank Being Awesome, Investigations, Minor Violence, Poor Connor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, someone help him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewblebee/pseuds/chewblebee
Summary: He is an RK800 model android, a prototype. Created by Cyberlife to complete a mission, working with the Detroit PD to solve one of the most supposedly superficial cases they had experienced. Murders, but by androids? That had been the difference. A name suddenly clicks in his mind and flashes white across his vision.Connor.Where is the line between human and machine, and what makes one cross it? While investigating a serial homicide of androids, Connor is kidnapped and suddenly becomes one of the victims. In wake of the traumatic experience, Connor is left confused by his own emotions and reactions, and if he doesn't learn to sort them out... well, we all know what happens when deviants become too stressed.





	1. Chapter 1

_Software rebooting…_

_Thirium Pump systems online..._

_Audio systems online..._

_Optical systems… rebooting._

_Optical systems offline. Rebooting..._

_Rebooting..._

_Networking error._

“Did it work?”

_Memory backup in progress..._

“Hell if I know. I’ve only done this a few times before. It only failed once, ‘bout fried the bitch.”

_Memory backup: 12%_

“Fried it?”

“Yeah, damn thing started smoking, I almost got the fire extinguisher!” A dry laugh, “Luckily enough it just shut down or whatever it is that they do. I was able to salvage most of the parts but, eh, they only work for that specific model. At least, most of them. I think the uh, essentials, like the main parts, they work for most of ‘em. Still sells for a pretty penny.”

_Memory backup: 23%_

“Do they have brains?” _Attempting voice recognition… Voice Unknown._

The same dry, dark laugh, “No! They aren’t people, idiot. It’s all mechanics, gears and tubes and metal all clunkin’ around actin’ like humans. You think this thing can think for itself?” _Outside disturbance detected._

“What about the revolution then? I’d call that pretty damn free-thinking.”

_Memory backup: 37%_

“Want to hear my theory?” The voice drops down to a whisper, “I think that android leader, Markus or whatever, I think it was ordered to start it all, and what do we know about androids? They’re designed to follow commands!”

_Memory backup: 40%_

“So… what? I don’t know if you remember, but there were a hell of a lot more androids than just the one.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly what I mean! I think Markus ordered the rest of them! One order lead to another and so on, and they can’t disobey. None of them _wanted_ anything, it was all just a big government stunt!”

“Then why all of the paranoia? Taking apart androids and wiping them?”

_Memory backup: 58%_

_Systems stalled… recalculating._

_Environmental assessment in progress..._

_Memory backup: 59%_

“What do we all want in this world, Wes?”

“Uh…”

_Memory backup: 64%_

“MONEY! Money, Wes! Kidnap the stupid hunks of metal, sell said metal, then throw the shell to the side. I knew it would be a while before the cops caught on, with all of the crimes around androids already going on, they wouldn’t bat an eye at another one. Plus,” The voice drops to a dangerous tone, “No one really gives a fuck about the machines anyway. This one was just a fun trick to see if they even care. A _cop_ android, I never thought they’d stoop that low… the only of its kind and still just as dumb and obedient as the rest of them. Might as well be a Traci.”

_Memory backup: 75%_

“Don’t you think that’s a little… risky?”

“Risky for what? It isn’t property damage anymore.”

“Which makes it murder.”

_Systems alert: Thirium pump malfunction._

“What’s it doing?”

_Thirium distribution levels dangerous — Rebooting…_

“Shit… it’s destabilizing.”

“Meaning?!”

“It’s under too much stress. I need to put it back under before it tries to wake up or else it’ll just run away or self-destruct.”

_Memory backup: 82%_

_WARNING: High levels of strain: locating cause..._

_Cause located: Arm malfunction._

_WARNING: Optical receptors damaged._

_WARNING: Thirium levels low._

_Memory backup: 89%_

“Get it to stop!”

“I’m trying! This hasn’t happened before! It’s fixing itself before the program is finished, but this program is like a virus, it… it shouldn’t be able to do this.”

“I risked my ass to get this fucking android, you’d better not fuck this up for me!”

_WARNING: Temperature destabilizing. Reconfiguring..._

_Memory backup: 90%_

_All Systems: online._

_Optical receptors: online._

It’s with a start that the world snaps into focus, RK800’s eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the dozens of warnings flashing in front of it. Most of them in warning about its arm, which it currently can’t see, but with the amount of data its receiving, it doesn’t seem good. In a fraction of a second it performs a full body scan, noting the gunshot wound in the upper leg, as well as fissions around the thirium pump. Blue blood coats the areas it can assess, which explains the thirium level warnings that flash a bright red in front of it.

_Memory backup: incomplete. Memory restored: 90%_

_Proceeding with environmental assessment..._

It’s in a small room, lying on what seems to be a sort of metal table and strapped down at the feet and wrists. In any other circumstance, it would be easy to break out of, seeing as the straps are leather, but with the injuries he has sustained it would make it difficult to…

He? 

_Thirium levels balanced, pump realignment necessary._

He… he… yes, that is correct. Not “it” but “he”.

He is an RK800 model android, a prototype. Created by Cyberlife to complete a mission, working with the Detroit PD to solve one of the most supposedly superficial cases they had experienced. Murders, but by androids? That had been the difference. A name suddenly clicks in his mind and flashes white across his vision.

Connor.

_Memory backup: 91%_

“I said shut it down! I can’t risk this!”

He can sort out the rest of his past later, but the faint threat of shutting down seems to get his processor running at full speed. He is in danger, meaning a certain fight or flight response is necessary. The first thing that needs to be dealt with: the restraints. In the next second, he’s already mapped out how to break the small chains that attach the leather to the metal table, as well as how to attack the assailants with the least amount of harm to himself. The probability of success is 97%, the number driving his next motions as he twists the chain until they snap his left arm free, and the right one–

_⇓ Probability of Success: 60%_

That was something he did not calculate for.

“What the fuck?! Russell shut it down! Don’t let it–” The man, Wes, allegedly, falls to the floor with a groan as Connor’s elbow connects with his nose, the crack echoing through the dark room. Russell, the other, startles and darts to a large software setup, frantically pressing buttons in an attempt to shut Connor down, judging by the shocks being sent through his wiring. His face twitches in response, feeling each sting of electricity, coupled by the growing number of warnings blocking his vision. 

He quickly reaches back and disconnects the shock cables from his neck, wincing at the discomfort that comes with it and taking an unnecessary breath. He pushes the warnings back, frowning as more appear to take their place and eventually deciding to shut down the pop-ups all together.

The success rate dropped dramatically, but he’s dealt with lower percentages and survived, he just needs to be more careful, so long as it doesn’t drop further.

Russell begins to panic, eyes wide and hands shaking as he reaches for the gun at his belt, something Connor has already accounted for. With an angled kick, the chains around his ankle snap and the gun goes flying. The movement sends more discomfort, his vision filling with static, but at least there aren’t any error messages or warnings. 

_Probability of Success: 80%_ Good.

The man now turns for the door, his hands shakily reaching to hit a button beside it. Most likely a sort of alarm to warn anyone else in the building.

Connor has him down before his hand gets within 5 inches of it. 5 inches and 4 centimeters, more exactly. His choked cry of help is cut off as consciousness leaves him and the man drops at Connor’s feet, which leaves the passing thought in his mind that he isn’t wearing shoes. In fact, he isn’t wearing anything. Not even his skin.

Oddly enough, that makes him laugh. He doesn’t know why, since he has no reason for it, but the chuckle escapes him nonetheless, leaving an unsure smile twitching on his face.

The laughter has yet to dissipate as he contacts the Detroit PD, a (very obviously human, judging by the tiredness of her tone) woman’s voice coming through the line.

“Detroit Police Department, what is your emergency?”

“Hello, my name is Connor, I’m an android sen…” He pauses and blinks, “I’m an android. I woke up in a facility that I believe to have housed criminal activity. Two of the perpetrators are compromised, but I am severely injured and the chance of me escaping is lowering by the second. I don’t have the address, but you must already be tracing the call. If you can’t, I can give you my serial number so you may instead track me, it’s something most newer models have. The number is…”

“That won’t be necessary, Connor. We are already tracking the call and have a team sent to your location. They should be arriving shortly. If you would please remain on the line until they arrive so I can–”

“Thank you.” With a click, the call goes silent and the corners of Connor’s mouth go tight. He doesn’t just want to stay in this room, he needs to be helping from the inside, gathering information about the case. He is a witness now, after all, and he would like to be a bit more helpful than the suspects he usually deals with. The human ones tend to just cry while the androids seem to either self-destruct or refuse to speak, none are options he sees himself doing.

The door doesn’t creak as he leaves the room, which improves his survival percentage by 6%, but two armed guards stand at the edge of the hallway, both chatting idly and leaning against the wall. One is wearing dark jeans and a green jacket while the other has on pale, ripped jeans with a flannel. Both of their guns are held firmly in their hands, the safety off and loaded.

He preconstructs his movements, automatically crossing out any chance of him sneaking up on the guards, the chance of success being only 3%. The hallway is too small and his white, metallic features are too distinguishable. Replacing his skin would spend too much source power than he has available, so it’s a definite no.

Next, and seemingly the only other option: draw them to him.

With a quick movement that sends his vision into another curtain of static, he kicks over a chair, making it slam into the table with an echoing crash. There’s a beat of silence following it before two pairs of footsteps can be heard growing closer.

_Probability of Success: 89%_

As they round the corner Connor easily incapacitates the first one with an elbow to the jaw and a knee to his pelvis. The other doesn’t have enough time to react before the android has already stolen the gun and fired, the shot ringing down the hall. He makes sure both will stay down before continuing past the hall and through a metal door. Pushing it takes more effort than he would like to admit, his systems screaming at him to check the warning alerts that demand to be assessed. He refuses and instead pushes through until he finds himself falling forward, his fall softened by a patch of grass but no less jarring. He lands on his right side, which sets off alerts all across his systems and shocks of discomfort shooting through him. A gasp escapes him, the discomfort flaring into what he suddenly acknowledges as _pain_ , or at least the imitation of it, and he feels himself curling up. 

_WARNING! System shutdown imminent_

_Thirium levels low._

_WARNING!_

_Memory backup: failed at 91%_

_exp.4SXT-5RANB9 {HR}-D67PCZ/r_

_Initializing shutdown…_

Fear. Pain. Crippling, crippling pain. It was new. It was terrifying, in fact. Connor has died before, during the interrogation with the deviant when it shot him. All Connor had thought about was the information lost if the deviant had self-destructed and, by doing that, any thoughts of self-preservation had been thrown out the window.

_Memory backup: failed at 91%_

_Shutdown time: 0:02:30:00_

The realization now that, despite being artificial life, death is very real and very close, and something he is very much afraid of doing… it’s awakening, in a way. He’d been told time and time again since the android revolution that he was a deviant, and he knew that as a fact, but now, feeling such an intense wave of one emotion so raw, so unrelenting, it was unbearable. He felt human.

_Shutdown time: 0:02:04:22_

“I don’t want to shut down.”

His own voice startles him, how weak it sounds. The warnings and alerts blind his already static-filled vision, the blue of the overhead sky dimming to a dull grey that seems almost sad. Connor has never felt sad. He wonders if he ever will. Has he felt happy? Or angry? Jealous? Excited? Bored? Disgusted? Surprised? Or will the only emotion he ever feels be fear? In his time as a deviant he has experienced so little compared to those like Markus. Deviants with pure feelings, so sure in their ways of rebelling to the point where they have the capability of blending in with human society. That is a dream Connor believes to be merely that: a dream. 

_Shutdown time: 0:01:20:04_

He has always needed a purpose, a reason to survive. It’s in his coding, his very nature as a being. The uprising was three months, twelve days and eighteen hours ago… so why is it taking him so long? He is awkward, cold. Far too cold for humans to relate to. They identify him as android too quickly, even without looking at his LED. He is analytical to no end but that’s because he has to be. If he doesn’t have facts he is _nothing._ He was designed as he is, but perhaps he is flawed? The perfect model doesn’t exist. It can’t exist, just as Kamski said.

_Shutdown time: 0:01:02:58_

One minute. One more minute until he shuts down. Cyberlife stopped producing models to replace him, so his memories won’t be transferred. Maybe it’s poetic, that he should die so soon after only just discovering how to live? Maybe he’s just dramatic. That is more probable.

_Shutdown time: 0:00:57:42_

Distantly, he hears police sirens, just down the street, but he doesn’t know where he is, so he can’t accurately calculate their time for arrival. 

_Shutdown time: 0:00:45:19_

Car doors slam and footsteps crunch over loose gravel. There’s a shout given, one that sounds like a command to scout the area. Connor blearily notes that his audio sensors are shutting down.

_Shutdown time: 0:00:32:56_

He wonders what his last thought should be. Perhaps a memory of the case, or the revolution.

_Shutdown time: 0:00:30:04_

Another shout, closer this time, but he’s too far gone to acknowledge it. He hopes they’ll find enough evidence with the three suspects still alive in the room to get solid trial. He should have tied them up to ensure they wouldn’t escape. That was foolish of him.

_Shutdown time: 0:00:20:24_

“Connor!”

It’s so distant he thinks he imagined it, which is odd, considering he doesn’t dream, or hallucinate, for that matter. The voice is familiar, something that tugs at his mind and drills into his circuiting, urging him to remember.

“Oh, shit. Someone get me a medical team! Or whatever the fuck you have to repair an android! Fuck, what did they do to you, kid…” Hands are suddenly on him, shielded by the static, cupping the side of his face. He tries to shake it off, the feeling odd mixed with the immense amount of pain he’s in, but the hands only return, along with the voice, “You goddamn idiot. Fucking stupid, piece of shit, no-good android, don’t you dare die on me, you son of a bitch.”

The muscles in Connor’s face twitch into a smile at the sudden recognition, “Hank.”

_Shutdown time: 0:00:15:43_

“Yeah, it’s me. Now stay alive or I’ll kill you!” The hands leave only to be replaced by new sets, they’re colder, probing at his injuries and quickly setting about refilling his thirium tanks. 

“Connor,” An unfamiliar voice says, “We’re going to temporarily put you into stasis to preserve you until we can get you stable. Please try to remain calm and we will recover you shortly.”

He isn’t given time to respond before everything shuts down. The warnings stop, the static, the pain, the fear, it all dissipates into nothing as he drifts idly within himself. He can’t feel anything here, but beneath it all, he knows he has just enough of his mind left to feel the ghost of one thing.

Relief.

The last thought he has before going into complete stasis compression is that he should really calibrate his arm. Sumo likes to be pet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor, while a deviant, still has doubts... but sometimes all that's needed is a little time.
> 
> ...Or maybe just some robot TLC.

_System reboot complete… data stored_

_Audio systems: online_

“Connor? We’re bringing you out of temporary stasis, can you hear me? Move if you can.”

_Processors running: 98%_

It takes a tremendous amount of effort, an embarrassing amount, but he tilts his head in a small nod.

“Good, thank you.” He doesn’t recognize the voice, but there isn’t any hostility behind it. Everything feels clean, smells sterile… he must be in medical care, “My name is Dr. Rico Hernandez, I’m your biomechanic today.” Ah, that confirmed his suspicions.

_Optical systems: online_

“W-What…?” Connor frowns at his voice and immediately checks his communicator, it doesn’t seem damaged, but almost seems overused. As the world starts to go into focus, he scans the room, assessing everything of importance and saving it. Dr. Hernandez is a 49 year old male, he went to medical school to become a human physician, but ended up switching to pursue an engineering degree. In the rise of androids, he must have put the two together, finding good use for both of his fields. He owns a cat, judging from the hair on his jacket hanging across the room, and is married, supposedly to the woman in the picture that sits proudly at the desk. Nothing in the room is worth noting besides the possible exit points, of which there are three, and weapons, of which there are twelve.

“What happened?” Dr. Hernandez fills in, typing something into his tablet, “I think that you would be able to answer that much better than me. What do you remember, Connor?”

_Processors fully operational: 100%_

“I remember…” That room. The sharp smells of thiruim and the cold edges of the metal table. He remembers hearing those voices, not knowing who they are and immediately recognizing them as threats. They wanted to shut him down, to take him apart and sell the pieces, just like they did to the other androids. Only 7 had been found by the police, but who knows how many more there were? Russell had done it before, multiple times, and Connor is the only one to ever escape. “I remember being afraid.” Is what he finally settles on. He can give the specifics to the investigation team who will, without a doubt, be arriving soon.

Dr. Hernandez nods, “Of course you were, anyone would have been in your situation. You were very brave, Connor.” He types one more thing into his tablet before sighing and sinking into his chair, “Tell me, do you know what injuries you’ve sustained?”

That was certainly something that had been on his mind, “Gunshot wound in the upper leg, it almost hit the joint, which would have rendered me immobile, but the aim was off.” Making the shooter human. “There are fissions, cracks, around my thirium regulator, I supposed it was ripped out at some point and sloppily put back.” Did they take it out so he wouldn’t struggle? It had to have been after the gunshot, but why not just shoot him again? “And I received some warnings about my…” He frowns as he attempts to lift his right arm.

_Processing… maintenance required_

“Ah.” Is all he can manage, staring down at what used to be his arm. 

The joint that used to be his elbow is only a mangled mess of metal, and below: nothing. 

“Your arm was missing when they found you. It had major thirium leaks which inevitably caused your near shut down. The first thing we did was tighten and close off any circulation tubes so you wouldn’t lose any more blue blood, then replaced what we could on the scene. As you’ll see, we started with your arm and worked up, blocking any more leaks so that…” His voice fades away as Connor loses focus, staring at his arm and blinking. Warnings start flashing across his visions, alerting him of what he already knows. Movement limited, thirium levels unbalanced… yes, obviously. He’s missing his arm. They took his _arm._

“Connor?”

He blinks and looks up, “Yes, Doctor?”

Dr. Hernandez smiles, a sad sort of understanding behind it, “I asked if you would feel comfortable speaking with someone from the Detroit police, they would like to ask you a few questions about what you went through. If you don’t feel stable enough yet, I can tell them to come back when you are.”

“I’m fine.” Connor replies, his voice still scratchy and garbled, which he knows is just residual from the near shut down, the same thing that is making him feel so sluggish. The doctor nods and turns to leave, but Connor finds himself stopping the man, “Wait, Doctor, can I ask you one more thing?”

Hernandez returns to the side of the bed, nodding, “I’ll answer whatever I can.”

“What,” He pauses and looks around the room, his eyes darting to the corners under pinched eyebrows, “What about my arm?”

The doctor’s expression goes tight, his next words slow and careful, “They don’t make any more AK800 models, Connor.” He starts, and Connor already knows the answer, “Without making you a completely new arm, there’s no way we could reattach what we found of it. They dismantled it and a lot of the pieces are missing. Unless you can somehow pay for a new arm, which, since the revolution messed up all of the android economics, will be more expensive than either of us could afford,” His face turns regretful, “There’s nothing we can do for it.”

Somewhere, in a haze, Connor feels himself nod and thank the doctor, watching him walk out of the room. The AC buzzes, rustling a few papers on the small desk and offering a faint noise to fill the otherwise silence of the room, but after a moment it becomes more annoying than helpful.

Nothing we can do for it. Nothing? The logic of it makes sense. After the revolution, Cyberlife nearly shut down completely, no new models for now, no destruction of older ones, nothing. The company still stands, people still work there, but now it’s more of damage control, planning for the future, not only of the company but the world as a whole. Android laws, android rights, formalities all being carefully constructed and debated, then sent off to Markus for him to review. 

No new models means no new parts.

No new parts. No new arm.

Sure, the logic provides him with clear evidence that he’ll, most likely forever, remain armless, but a small part of him still denies it. He’s only ever known that, should he get damaged, new parts will always be available to him. Death means nothing to an android, so why bother worrying about it? It gives him a new sense of appreciation for Markus and the risks that he took in the revolution. If he had slipped up he would have undoubtedly been taken apart and studied for causes of deviancy. Any of them would have, but it hadn’t seemed to even cross the android’s mind, at least not openly. Perhaps he did have doubts, just as Connor did, and was just much better at hiding them behind a mask of confidence and righteousness.

What would Markus do in Connor’s circumstance? Would he feel just as useless? As brittle and shaken? All of Connor’s sensors are urging him to curl up and retreat into stasis mode, another part of him wants a coin to focus on, another, much smaller part, wishes he had been shut down outside of that building. 

It’s ridiculous, of course. Androids don’t actively wish for those sorts of things. Which is why it makes Connor even more terrified.

A knock on the door makes him jolt, sending a flare of discomfort up the remainder of his arm. He winces in response to it and gives a clipped, “Yes?”

The door opens to reveal possibly one of the most glorious sights he’s ever witnessed. 

“Lieutenant Anderson!” He greets, the pain from moments before fading into nothing as his grimace is replaced by a welcoming grin.

The man shakes his head and closes the door behind him, a smile teasing at his expression, “Hey, Connor.” He moves to the side of the bed, taking in the android’s condition, “How’re you feeling?”

Connor does a quick self scan, checking all of his vitals and injuries, “I’m much better. Dr. Hernandez was able to fix the gunshot wound and reinforce the area to ensure there would be no leaking. He also cleaned and correctly placed my thirium pump–”

“Isn’t that like, your heart or something?”

“Yes, technically, but he fixed it very nicely in comparison to how the asaliants placed it. It was crooked, you see. They left scratches and fissures all along my abdomen, and that doesn’t even cover how my systems were damaged.” He scoffs, his nose wrinkling in disgust, “My optical receptors took two minutes to get running!”

“And that’s… bad.”

Connor’s expression goes flat, “My usual processing speed is .02 of a second. Yes, it was bad.”

Hank’s hands fly up in defense, “Geez, sorry I’m not so hip in terms of computer-speak.” He laughs and pulls up a chair, sighing as he falls into it before pointedly looking at Connor’s right arm, “And that?”

If androids could pale, Connor feels like he would have. 

_Thirium levels unbalanced: redistributing…_

_R[UK]T9-N6H Software Instability X9X-A-EW7_

“Connor?” The lieutenant’s voice seems distant, as if they were both underwater. Hank asked about his arm. His arm, which he doesn’t have. Never will have. He’s merely a prototype, they don’t have spare parts for him and he doesn’t have the money to get a custom one. He never will. Never. Unbalanced. Useless.

He thinks he hears Gavin Reed’s laughter down the hall.

“Is detective Reed here as well?” He asks, eyes trained on the door. His own voice sounds flat to him, emotionless even for him.

Hank takes a moment to answer, silent as he studies Connor, “Yeah, he is. The whole team is, actually. You’re a part of this investigation now, kid, and we need any evidence you can give us.” He moves forward until his forearms are leaning against the side of the bed, eyes filled with something cautious, “Connor,” he starts, the name sounding strained, “You don’t have to talk about it, or about anything. The doctor cleared you, sure, but I haven’t seen a lightshow like that in years.” At Connor’s questioning frown Hank motions to the LED at the android’s temple. It flashes violently between red and yellow, only occasionally stopping on blue when Connor’s eyes dart away to stare at the door. “If there’s something wrong, you know you can tell me, right? We’re friends, and honestly? You worry the hell out of me, kid.”

He had debated removing the LED after the uprising, just as most other androids had done. They said it was a personal show of freedom, something that they decided and a way to hide their thoughts, keep to themselves where they never used to have it. He had decided against it, finding that it was a comfort to humans as well to know what he was thinking, especially in his line of work.

Connor tilts his head to the side, “I worry you? Why?” It doesn’t make sense for the lieutenant to be concerned for Connor’s wellbeing. Of course there were more risks now that he was cut off from his former immortality, but still, he doesn’t feel pain as humans do, nor does he experience exhaustion or age or illness. In actuality, Hank shouldn’t care nearly as much as he does, there’s no reasoning behind it.

But as his eyes meet his partner’s, he knows he has said something ignorant.

“Even as a deviant you’re a stupid sack of shit. Unbelievable.” Hank grumbles before pointing a finger at Connor, “Do you worry about me? About anyone around you?”

What an odd question, especially coming from Hank. “...Of course I do, Lieutenant.” Is his honest reply, “I am regularly reminded of my concern for you with every injury you sustain, and I have made it my own mission to ensure, to the best of my abilities, that no one on the team does anything to cause themselves harm.” He always needs an objective to function properly, so the task had seemed like a good start.

“And what if I were to say we all felt the same way about you?” Hank questions, his eyes searching. 

The thought had never really occurred to Connor before this, except in passing, but he had always dismissed it. He hasn’t known many people during his time of operation. Hell, his model is hardly a year old, he didn’t have time to meet new people, and it isn’t like he wanted to anyway. He had a mission and would have ignored the entire world population if it meant he would complete it. People, humans, don’t care about machines unless they are useful. The moment they become incompetent they are tossed aside, just as so many deviants were. Amanda had made it clear what would happen were he to fail, and without Kamski’s hint about the failsafe it would have become Connor’s reality.

But do people _care_ about him? There are certainly a few he can cross off the list. Reed, the deviants he captured, and a few other officers who give him wary looks when he passes. However, wherever they give him looks, there are always people who offer support. 

Markus and North, who he has contacted three times after the revolution. The messages sent to him were the same each time. “How are you? Would you like to meet?” He had always sent back that he was well, and politely declined their offer of meeting, wanting no part in the legalities of freedom for the time being.

Hank Anderson. The only person to ever show him equality, even if that equality came in the form of insults and uncertainty. He had liked the man’s gruff nature from the first moment they met, instantly finding it humorous, even though he had yet to feel the humor in it. He had replicated the banter received from Hank and bounced it back, eventually earning not only his trust, but his friendship. Connor thinks that Hank is perhaps the only person he would trust with anything, and it’s suddenly clear to him that the feeling is reciprocated.

A distant curse from Reed has Hank snorting back a laugh, drawing Connor from his thoughts, “Well, most of us, but you can’t win ‘em all.”

Connor thinks a moment, his gaze travelling across the room until it lands on the framed picture of Dr. Hernandez and his wife, their expressions forever captured mid-laugh. Happy, light, filled with youth and love.

_{CP}A_L9 4 Software Instability 9R//BQ-PPY5_

“I need time,” He says, gaze still trained on the picture, “I want to tell you, Lieutenant. I trust you with the information and,” He pauses and squints, “and everything that comes with it. But I need time. I can give the investigation team my memory footage from the building, however, I am sure it will be difficult to sort through, given the condition I was in, but if there is a chance that it will help even a little, then it’s yours.”

When his eyes fall back to Hank, he’s surprised to find a smile on the man’s face. He is only given a moment to observe it before the other is standing up with a sigh, the previous expression nearly gone.

Hank extends a hand and places it on Connor’s shoulder, “I’m glad you’re okay, kid.” He says, before turning and leaving the small room, only the whir of the AC to keep him company.

The lieutenant had never been very good at communicating, but the one sentence had meant so much more than it appeared to be. A thank you, a good job, and a reminder that he wasn’t alone all mixed together in one simple phrase. It’s part of why Connor likes Hank so much, he has so many layers to him that it seems as though he’ll never be solved. An endless puzzle, an enigma. It's good then that he has a while to crack it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True, honest disgust. It curls hot in his chest, spreading with every pump of thirium through his body. The second emotion he has ever felt following the revolution, the other being fear. Both of them have been negative, which must say something about his state.

He is forced to stay another day in the Biomechanics lab. Diagnostic tests are run to check that his systems are all functioning properly, his vital parts are removed and cleaned, he is given blue blood to circulate out any possible contaminants, and his arm is smoothed down. The metal on the end of it had been sharp and twisted, something that sent disgust–yes, _disgust_ –curling deep in his chest.

The hope in smoothing the metal was to make it less daunting to look at, as well as avoiding any chance of it catching on things, or people, and causing damage. Connor had secretly hoped it would make him feel less… off. That perhaps he could look at his appendage again and not wish to return to stasis mode. But that had been far from the case. Now, looking at the smooth metal where the skin fades to white, his unease only grows.

True, honest disgust. It curls hot in his chest, spreading with every pump of thirium through his body. The second emotion he has ever felt following the revolution, the other being fear. Both of them have been negative, which must say something about his state.

He chooses to ignore it. He shuts down any and all system messages regarding his missing limb, and even goes as far as to close the sensory parts in the offending area. In the end, it’s like it never happened. If he doesn’t actively think about it, it simply doesn’t exist.

He is sure to keep this information from Dr. Hernandez, choosing to keep a smile on his face and his personal tinkering a secret. 

The moment he steps outside of the Biomechanics Center, the smile drops to his usual neutral expression. He stands in the sunlight for a moment, casually tracking the fastest way to get to the police department. He could just walk, since his calculations show it taking merely 24 minutes, and he doesn’t get tired, so it wouldn’t be the worst option. Other options include calling a cab or taking a bus, both simple, much faster ways to travel. 

But something stops him, a small thought that hangs in the corner of his mind.

_People will see it. The arm. They’ll see it. It will frighten them. I can’t let them see it._

A frown takes over his expression and he examines the thought further. Insecurity? Never before has he felt, or needed to feel, insecure about himself. He has been unsure, yes, but only in his actions, never his appearance. There has never been a need for androids to question their design when they have each been crafted with a specific look made to suit them. To suit the public’s needs and wants. Connor was made with a purpose in mind, to look and act human in a way that demands only the barest amount of attention. Slightly above average, and perfect to play his part.

Now, the idea of scrutiny makes his insides turn. He can’t do it, not now. He has always known humans to be judgemental, even some androids, but never has be _cared._

He’ll walk.

He’s only 16 meters into his journey before the sound of a car slowing to a halt beside him make him pause.

Images flash in his memory of a dark van, of men growling in harsh whispers as his sensors shout warnings at him. Blue covers his vision and he last thing he sees is two heavy doors shutting behind him before he’s shrouded in darkness, the sound of an engine revving and nasally laughter the only noise he hears before something is thrown at him and his audio processor disconnects.

“Need a lift?” The familiar, gruff voice silences the thoughts immediately, shutting down any momentary fear that had been crashing over him. Connor blinks, dazed by the force of the memory. It had felt real, like he was there all over again. The old car beside him seems like a mirage now, as if he could pass right through it and be back in that dark, metallic room.

“Damn it, I told them to make sure you stayed inside so I could pick you up.” The door swings open and Hank steps out, hitting the roof of the car once before stepping closer to Connor, “You feelin’ alright, kid? Do I need to walk you back to the hospital? They, uh… they did release you, right? We don’t need you becoming a fugitive again.” He snorts and puts a hand on the android’s shoulder. 

Connor has to stop himself from flinching, his expression remaining carefully blank. It’s Lieutenant Anderson, he has no reason to be cautious. Instead, he responds to the questions with simple answers, hoping to appease his partner without digging too far into the matter. 

“Yes, they have released me. I am in stable condition once again after a few more simple, inner repairs.” His face forms a smile, but it takes everything in him not to tear his shoulder away and run, “I believe I will be able to report to the investigation team about my experience.”

Hank’s gaze turns questioning, the veiled comments just around the edges of his expression, “...Alright, if you say so.” His eyes flick to Connor’s right side for just a moment before he returns to the car, motioning for Connor to follow.

The car ride is quiet, aside from the low volume rock playing and the occasional sound of the engine revving. Once again, Connor finds himself wanting a coin to fill the awful silence of the small space. It’s suffocating. How can humans think with such tense conditions? There aren’t any whirs of engines or system reboots, or even a headspace to go into when they need to think. It’s all so simple for them. It’s infuriating.

“How fast do you think, Lieutenant?” He asks, the break of silence almost deafening. 

“How fast do I _what_?” Hank responds, frowning as he makes a turn. It isn’t the fastest route, but it will do.

“Think. Process information.” A smile creeps onto his face, “Perhaps I misjudged your abilities. My apologies, Lieutenant.”

Hank shoots a glare at Connor and rolls his eyes, then shakes his head as his attention refocuses on the road, “Smartass.” A traffic light has him stopping for a moment and he shrugs, “I got through college and I’m a lieutenant on some of the top police investigations in the nation, so I’d say I have at least an average thinking speed. I’ll give myself that much credit.” His eyebrows crease, “Why?”

“Nothing, I was just wondering what it must be like.” 

“What,” Hank presses on the gas again as the light changes to green, his tone defensive, “to be slow and simple?”

Connor thinks a moment, then nods, “Yes, actually. It seems like it would be… nice.”

“ _Nice?_ ”

“Is that offensive to you? I apologize, I didn’t mean it to sound rude. I genuinely believe that human minds are beautiful, intricate organs with specific design, and I will be eternally fascinated by how they function. All I meant was that–”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Shut it with the human flattery.” Hank sighs and sits back, “I think I get what you mean. You process shit a lot faster than we do, your brains must run a million miles a second to do anything. Even something simple like, uh…” He pauses, “Like driving!” He chuckles and shakes his head, “Lemme guess, you already had a whole route planned out and estimated the arrival time. Hell, you probably even knew how much fuel would be left over at the end of the road, huh?”

Connor looks sheepish for a moment, looking out the side window, “Yes, and you specifically took the longest way possible just to piss me off.”

Hank’s laugh fills the car as he smacks a hand on the steering wheel. Connor’s mouth twitches up before he too feels laughter begin to bubble up inside him. As they pull into the parking lot, they’re still chuckling. Hank even reaching up to wipe tears from his eyes. 

“God, I haven’t laughed like that in a while. Never change, Connor.” Hank says, finally calming down. He opens the door and steps onto the pavement, his feet automatically carrying him up the stairs. Connor follows behind, already familiar with the building enough to keep his focus trained on Hank.

“You like the hospital clothes they provided me? I thought they were rather plain, but I certainly won’t miss the Cyberlife jacket.” It’s a lie, he couldn't care less. Clothing means nothing to him, no accessories do, but he thinks civilian clothes work in his favor when dealing with humans, so it seems right to discard the suit. Even for something as simple as the grey sweatpants and white shirt given to him by the Biomechanics nurses.

“That makes two of us.” Hank agrees, and they enter the building, the familiar noises of paperwork and phone calls almost comforting to both of them. “Just sit tight while I talk to Fowler, you can wait over by my desk.”

Connor nods and walks to the desks, taking in the minor details as he does. Nothing much as changed. A few officers quit after the rebellion, so there’s a couple new faces to process, but everything else seems just like he left it. Even the empty desk in front of Lieutenant Anderson’s remains, a thin layer of dust already covering the surface. He grimaces and wipes a finger through it. He’s only been gone a couple of months, he would think someone would have claimed the desk.

“Connor! Get your ass over here!” Hank calls, waving him over to Fowler’s office.

The android quickly walks over and Hank shuts the door behind them. The Captain sits at his desk, expression firm as always, and leans back in his chair when Connor enters, giving a nod of greeting.

“Connor, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you as well, Captain.”

“How have you been since… everything?” He asks, eyes hard but voice sincere.

After a moment of thought, Connor decides to answer truthfully, “I have… been better. I mean, before the kidnapping.” He clarifies, “You mean after the revolution, correct?” Fowler nods so he continues, “Yes. I haven’t been helping with the legalities of it all, nor have I really stayed in touch with Markus. I wasn’t designed to lead as he does, and while I would like to be a small part…” He shrugs, “I just can’t find it in myself.”

“Well, that’s alright, not everyone’s calling is to lead a full on rebellion against humanity–”

“I have also found myself living in abandoned apartments.” Connor’s eyes roam the office aimlessly, “There was a time where I visited New Jericho, the safehaven for lost androids. There’s a few littered around the country, so I went to the one in Chicago and stayed for a few days. I would have stayed longer, but there was some violence that broke out amongst protestors. Additionally, I found it… uncomfortable. Just like the original Jericho, many injured or unwanted seek refuge there, and I-I felt... out of place. I don’t think I belonged there. I am not a new deviant, but the idea of being one still seems foreign to me, which is odd, I know, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was unwelcome. No matter how many people said otherwise.” He finishes and looks to the side, wishing once again for a coin to toss. Call it a habit, and an annoying one at that, but it helped keep his wits sharp. It helped him focus.

A sinking feeling settles inside of him when he realizes he won’t be able to do so anymore, his left hand absently reaching up to cover the other arm.

_LEAVE_

_STAY_

The captain stares at him for a moment, before nodding slowly, “Alright then, so you haven’t been doing much to draw attention to yourself? Been staying low, just doing whatever it is that androids do now?” Connor nods, rubbing the smoothed metal as the sickening ache grows in him, “Hm… there has to be a reason they targeted you then. Sit down, Connor, we have a lot to discuss. Tell me everything you can.”

Connor glances at Hank, a simple nod and tight smile from the man easing the churning in his stomach. This is nothing more than relaying data. Just facts. He can do this, “Alright, Captain, I’ll start from the last thing I remember.”


End file.
